He Stares at the Wall
by Kindre Turnany
Summary: "I hate the way he stares at the wall or runs upstairs while I change." - mopey Kurt, unrequited Kinn, one-shot


I don't own Glee. If I had a genie, I probably still wouldn't wish to own it because I know I couldn't make it as amazing as the people who created it. I'd wish to meet the people behind Glee, to have a bag of holding, and the last book of the Wheel of Time.

Anyway, I wrote this because I was reading a lot of Glee fanfiction (urgh! two weeks until the new episodes air!) and felt like writing something today. It just sort of happened, so it probably won't be the best thing I've ever done. And I made Kurt much too mopey.

**He Stares at the Wall**

I hate the way he stares at the wall or runs upstairs while I change. Or the way he glares at me if I don't vacate the whole damned house when _he_ changes. I never seemed to bother him in the locker room—except that time he didn't know what a t-zone is—but he makes me feel like a pervert in my own bedroom.

I gaze at the ceiling, tracing muddled faces and the shapes music would make if you could see it in the texture. It's amazing the things you can find a face in. Finn tells me it's amazing the things I can find music in. All he sees is plaster and maybe that spot that looks like a duck. We have the same problem with clouds; he sees fluffy animals where I see the shifting notes of a song I can't quite hear. Once I told him I saw a Gucci sweater, but that was a lie; I just wanted him to help convince my dad I _needed_ it despite a price tag even I would call "ridicuhorrible" if that were a word. As it is, I stick with "exorbitant."

Finn clears his throat because even though I'm not looking at him, I could be. All I'd have to do is shift a little so the corner of my vision fell on his bare skin. I know he's wearing boxers already—because he never isn't when I'm in the house—so I think he's just being touchy. He's such a _girl_ sometimes.

I've been trying not to—no, I don't stare at ceiling textures just for the fun of it—but I picture him now. Not as he is standing across the room, trying to telepathically will me out, but as he was before leaving the restroom for our bedroom. Naked, covered in singing droplets of water that slide down his skin, fall into the tub, and disappear down the drain without telling me what it _felt_ like to finally touch Finn Hudson's body.

I glance over at my roommate to keep the image of him rubbing soap over that body out of my mind. He's pulled on a pair of jeans, but his back is still bare and slightly wet with the water dripping down his neck from his tousled hair. He's gorgeous, of course. And about to ruin it with the ugliest orange and green striped shirt ever made. If I could steal every bit of clothing that boy owns and replace it with something worth wearing without finding myself cut in half shortly thereafter, I'd have done it the day he moved in. Finn wouldn't know a decent outfit if it raped him.

Okay, _not_ the image I need right now.

I sigh once he has the shirt on and turn back to the ceiling. He shouldn't be able to make clothing that bad look that good just by virtue of wearing it. It's still a hideous shirt, and I know he'd look better in even something as horrid as a graphic t-shirt, but that boy is seriously hot. Even better, he doesn't seem to know it.

His bed squeaks, and I know he's sitting now, probably pulling on his socks. I'm already dressed. I can't decide if I wake up early so we don't have to fight over the shower or so he's not awake yet to run out of the room while I get dressed not eight feet from him. I should have eaten while Finn dressed, but leaving the room would be giving in, and I'm not going to admit that he's winning. It's _my_ room.

It's his too. But that doesn't mean it isn't still mine. For some reason, I haven't been able to call it "our room" since he shouted "fag" at me. If I say it's mine, then I don't have to care what he thinks of it. He keeps trying to talk about sharing it, but what he wants is to take turns. He won't say it, and I won't let him, but that's what he wants. He wants me out of the room when he's in it, and he wants to run for the hills when I use it.

I remember thinking it would pass after a few weeks. Finn just had to get used to sharing was all.

"Hey, man," he says, standing up, "breakfast?"

One great thing about living with Finn: he hates to eat alone. He used to be rather accustomed to it, but once he realized there were three other people in the house, and at least one of them could eat with him at any given time, he swore off it.

I'm supposed to say something snarky here, but I just smile and head upstairs. Mercedes would—and probably will when I talk to her later—tell me I'm melodramatic. She says I spend too much time mooning over Finn and not enough learning to live with him. She even went so far as to say that our nightly phone calls have gotten _depressing_ because all I do is _whine_ about Finn Hudson. I know she's exaggerating—it's called hyperbole—but it's still annoying, especially when she claims she doesn't need to exaggerate with the way I go on and on.

I turn to look at Finn following me to the kitchen with a goofy smile on his face. It's enough to cheer me up, even if my best friend thinks I'm getting crazy. I bow and indicate with my hands for him the precede me. "Monsieur."

He chuckles as though he's already forgotten the way he leadenly alternated between glaring and avoiding looking at me not two minutes ago while he changed and grabs a box of cereal. "Uh, Kurt," he mumbles after he's poured his cereal and I've grabbed an orange from the fruit bowl I make Dad keep on the counter. It's the same way he said my name when he asked me not to help with his laundry even though he hasn't the slightest clue how to fold a shirt. It should make me light up when he says my name, but when he does it like that, I feel dirty. Like a pervert again, sniffing through his underwear for something that's been closer to him that I ever will.

"Yes?"

"It just makes it worse when you do that, you know?" He stares at his cereal, spoonful of something with enough sugar that it should be ashamed of claiming to be healthy hovering halfway between the bowl and his much too kissable lips.

"No, I don't know, since you didn't say what 'that' is." I lift my chin and try not to look like I'm pining or moping or any other words Mercedes has thrown at me lately.

"Oh, yeah. I mean like the way you stare at the ceiling and stuff while I get dressed. It's pretty awkward to know you're both _there_ and so… um… aware of me that you can't look at anything in a normal sort of way."

"You mean the way you bore an escape hole through the wall with your eyes if you can't run full speed from the room before I begin dressing myself?"

He winced but nodded his head and shoved the spoon into his mouth.

"How's this then: I'll start acting naturally the moment you do." I cross my arms and know it's a lie. The moment he isn't freaked out by having me around, I'll flutter my girly eyelashes at him and drink his presence in until he can't help but love me back.

"Fair enough."

I should feel bad, I know, but I smile and watch him finish his cereal, imaging that mouth over me instead of a cold spoon and soggy breakfast. Finn is too sweet for his own good. He'd probably even believe it for a while if I told him I didn't like him anymore, in _that_ way, I mean. Or any other way, honestly. The boy will believe just about anything if only because he wants to trust that people won't take advantage of his naiveté.

I want to cuddle up to Finn like he's a big teddy bear or a soft puppy. I head back to the restroom to brush my teeth instead because the quarterback freaks out like a girl who just found a spider on her arm any time I try to touch him. He always apologizes afterward now, but he still does it in the first place. I honestly don't know any more if he's afraid of me or of my sexuality.


End file.
